


Shimmering Threads

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Comeplay, Community: rounds_of_kink, Incest, Kinks, M/M, Pre-Series, Restraints, Sibling Incest, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scarf is what ignited the night. Sprawled out on the couch in the living room, Lincoln noticed the box on the coffee table and casually opened it to peer inside. His thick fingers swept over the delicate fabric and lifted it up from its wrapping to examine it more closely – blue and smooth and shimmering, shifting shades under the soft light. (Pre-series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shimmering Threads

_This is not how he had planned to spend the night._ The thought has been lurking at the back of his mind for more than an hour now, and pops back to attention when he watches Lincoln gulping down a flute of his very tasty and exorbitantly expensive Champagne as if it was average beer. His brother smacks his lips with satisfaction and comments, “Nice stuff,” before slapping down the glass on the table.

“Yeah,” is all Michael can muster up in return.

The crystal of the flute catches the light and diffracts it. The whole room is shimmering, there is no other word to describe it: the night lights and illuminations of the city behind the huge windows, the small lamps and red candles lighting his loft and sparkling on the damn crystal flute and in the mirrors, Lincoln’s eyes as they hold his own, and Lincoln’s skin, slick with sweat, as he shifts to find a comfortable position, the silk scarf brushing Michael’s arms... Numerous tiny sources of light glow in the otherwise dark apartment.

The scarf is what ignited the night. Sprawled out on the couch in the living room, Lincoln noticed the box on the coffee table and casually opened it to peer inside. His thick fingers swept over the delicate fabric and lifted it up from its wrapping to examine it more closely – blue and smooth and shimmering, shifting shades under the soft light. It was evoking something uncatchable to Michael, who thought that somehow, it was better not to linger on the idea.

“You’d bought her a gift?” Linc asked with an odd expression on his face, an odd tone in his voice, something between relief, gloom and irony. Michael thought _Fuck you_ and kept his mouth shut. Yet Lincoln seemed to catch it up because next thing Michael knew, his brother was winding the scarf around his neck, hauling him up by the belt of his pants and half dragging half pushing him towards the bedroom. He had his hands all over him in a matter of seconds; they opened his shirt, dug in his pants, causing him to gasp with lust when Lincoln cupped his ass and ground their hips together. Michael went along with it, didn’t resist or ask what had elicited such impatience. It wasn’t like Lincoln often initiates anything between them after all, so he had better enjoy it when it did happen.

Anyway, the long scarf made out of smooth, blue, shimmering silk is now wrapped around his wrists, tying him up to the headboard. The little motto plays once again in his head to remind him that _this is not how he had planned to spend the night_. But his brother called two days ago to say that he would drop by on New Year’s Eve, and all Michael’s plans suddenly flew out of the window. More than Lincoln, he hates himself for that. He hates the ease with which he called his date to tell her that he wouldn’t be able to make it after all. He hates the relief he felt when she sighed in disappointment but reassured him it was okay and she had a back up plan. He wonders what would have happened if she _hadn’t_ had a back up plan.

Fuck that. He knows what would have happened – just the same, only with a bit more guilt on his part.

Lincoln helps himself to another glass of Champagne, not offering to share like the bastard he is; then, in a swift move, he crawls down until he looms over Michael’s lower stomach. His mouth descends on him, swallowing as deep as he can – no warning, no flourish, just his lips, wet and cool from the Champagne, closing around Michael’s shaft and sucking hard. For a few second, Michael wonders if his mind is playing tricks on him or if he can actually feel the bubbly touch of the wine on his flesh. He doesn’t have the time to dwell on the question because Lincoln is already dragging his mouth up, his tongue fluttering and lavishing its trail. He lets go of his cock with a last lewd suction and casts a smug glance at Michael who can’t help a moan of frustration.

“Nice stuff too,” he says, quickly twisting his hand around Michael’s cock with appreciation. “Maybe I’ll have more of it later.”

“Jerk.”

Lincoln chuckles at the angry reply and bends forward to kiss him on the lips, slow and greedy, delving into his mouth. His right hand fumbles until he finally grabs the candle on the night table. Michael blinks and watches him as he straddles his hips. Droplets of wax are already running down and solidifying in tiny blobs and Linc tests their warmth with the tip of a finger before slightly tilting the candle jar. Still hazy from the taunting, faster than light blow job, Michael realizes what’s going on only when a few drops hit his chest, hot and stinging. He jolts on the mattress, his arms straining against the silken bond, but he refuses to protest or ask Lincoln to stop. It’s not that painful anyway...

“What’s her name?”

... although it is slightly more unpleasant when the next beads land on the tender skin of his stomach. His muscles clench and in response, Lincoln’s free hand brushes his cock, teasing and rewarding him at the same time. OK... he watches the candle from the corner of his eye and the thing is way too low now. He’s pretty sure that Lincoln is neither drunk nor high and has a reasonably steady hand, but it’s, almost literally, playing with fire here.

“Whose name?” he asks, pretending not to know what Linc means.

“The scarf lady.” He tugs on one end of said scarf for emphasis. Michael can’t take off his eyes of the wavering candle. Lincoln holds it with a false casualness, letting wax leak onto the bed – obviously, his brother isn’t happy with ruining his night and his Champagne, now he’s also after his Egyptian cotton sheets – and splattering a few more drops on Michael’s stomach just next to his belly button. The wax slides on his skin and leaves a red, hot trail on his flank. He shivers under the light burn.

“Why do you care?” He doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t want to give that to Lincoln. He wants, he needs to keep something for him and him alone.

“What did you tell her when you canceled for tonight?”

“That a family issue came up.” Lincoln smirks and nudges him until he bends his knees and spreads his thighs wider. It makes his cock twitch, that sensation of being bared and exposed, the fact that Lincoln strains his neck to watch him, to stare between his legs and then lower. It’s not only his hard-on Lincoln is so enthralled by right now and his muscles clamp at the abrupt insight. He grits his teeth. He shouldn’t enjoy this so much. He should enjoy none of all this, the feeling of being open and offered for Lincoln to take even less, but eyes gleaming with concupiscence sweep over him and he cants his hips, flaunting in the crudest way. Lincoln’s smirk turns into an appreciative leer.

“If you hadn’t come, I would have been alone tonight,” he tells him with resentment.

“But I’m here. I came.” He plants a kiss on Michael’s knee. “Don’t sweat it. You’re going to come too,” he says, and Michael rolls his eyes at the stupid pun. Another kiss, which turns into nibbling, and after a few seconds, Lincoln just sinks his teeth in the flesh of Michael’s inner thigh and twists it. Something else that he shouldn’t enjoy, really, yet it has him gasping and writhing. Lincoln haphazardly replaces the candle on the night table – more spraying in the process and Michael flinches under the droplets – his mind clear enough to put it away and at a safe distance from the sheets and the scarf but not coherent enough to avoid spilling wax on the wood. While he’s at it, he retrieves a small bottle in the drawer and drops it on the pillows. Michael automatically glances at the tiny container, then at Lincoln and nervously licks his lips when he sees the expression on his brother’s face.

“Gonna make it slow and hard, Mike. This is how you like it, right?” Lincoln says, more a statement than an actual question, before starting to bite and lick his way up, from Michael’s crotch to his neck. He leaves imprints of teeth in his trail, the stubble of his chin deliciously scratching Michael’s skin and rubbing the already sensitive spots where the wax fell. When Linc reaches his chest, he grazes his teeth across a nipple and slips his hands under him to grab his ass – kisses, sucks on and nibbles the nub of flesh for so long that it becomes painful, and kneads his buttocks so harshly that Michael’s sure his nails are leaving bloody pink indentations in the flesh. “A bit harsh, huh?”

Michael bites his tongue not to say that he likes it any way Lincoln is willing to give it to him or to let him have it, and instead merely grumbles, “What’s wrong with you tonight?”

“Nothing. Just enjoying what’s mine.”

Anything he may be tempted to retort is swallowed by Lincoln’s kiss. He parts his lips under his brother’s mouth and welcomes tongue and saliva with a wantonness that makes him queasy. He desperately thrusts his hips upwards, hoping for a friction, a touch, anything. Linc is kneeling above him and he barely manages to brush the head of his cock against hot, slick skin. Lincoln chortles and slightly lowers himself towards Michael, allowing a lingering contact.

“How did you meet her?” He snags the small bottle lost in the pillows and Michael holds his breath as he works his hand on himself first, then on Michael. As they slip into him, his fingers are thorough and careful, considerate, making it clear if Michael ever needs reassurance that the whole thing about ties and candles and roughing him up is deliberate taunting. “I thought you didn’t do anything other than working.”

Yeah. Well.

“She’s a co-contractor.”

Slow and hard. Lincoln carries on his promise when he slides inside him, pushing steadily and gripping his hips so tight it will undoubtedly leave bruises. Michael arches under the strong body, eyes closed and barely able to breathe, his head digging into the pillow.

“You fuck your co-workers?” Michael opens his eyes. “You were going to sleep with her?”

“It’s none of your business.”

Lincoln snorts. “When I’m done here...” He withdraws almost entirely and pushes in back as deep as he can; Michael groans. “... I’m going to take your dick in my mouth and make you come on my tongue. I’m entitled to know where said dick wanders, right?”

The coarse words, the blatant possessiveness, those are more things he should despise, yet they make his mind spin with longing, his gut tighten with lust. He looks around him, his eyes skimming over the pretty lights, the elaborate decoration, the luxurious bedroom. Lincoln’s voice and grunts of pleasure as he drives into him are suddenly pushed back to the second plan. He will never ever admit it, but he revels in Lincoln’s attitude. It took him some time – he knows he can be so dense when he doesn’t want to understand – but he finally got something: he _wants_ to be claimed and taken, owned and possessed. He wants to be ripped open and used in any way Lincoln may conceive. He’s not free nor does he wish to be. The thought is chilling, and the shimmering of the room appears like a stark contrast with the fact that Michael can see no shimmer of light, no easy exit to his situation.

He wonders if Lincoln knows. If on an unconscious level, he keeps messing his own life so that Michael can judge and save him because this is what Michael needs. He constantly nags at Lincoln, wanting him to straighten up his life, but he comes – fuck the damn double entendre – _runs_ flat out whenever Linc asks him to.

He gives in. It’s not like he has any other options anyway. Eyes screwed shut and head tipped back, he lets Lincoln have him and basks in the way he fills him, in the maddeningly slow pace of his thrusts, in the fact that the only things he can have a grip on are the scarf and Lincoln’s hips and sex. He twists the scarf between his fingers, urges Lincoln on with his knees and clenches his muscles around him. So good, being rocked into the bed, helpless under the long and slow shoves, his cock playfully pressed against his own belly by Linc’s gentle rough palm – and maybe he says this aloud because Lincoln leans in for a bruising kiss, taking his mouth as if it was a due.

He’s abruptly dragged back to reality by an increase pressure around his shaft. For a couple of seconds, he’s not exactly sure of what Lincoln is trying to accomplish, making him come right on spot or preventing him to. All he’s aware of is that his brother is talking to him and, from the sound of his voice, has been for a while.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“So?”

“What?”

“You want me to come in you or on you?” Lincoln grouses through gritted teeth.

A jolt of mixed anger and arousal makes him want to hit Lincoln and arch off the bed at the same time. _Add this to the list of things that should enrage him._

Then he looks up and sees something, catches a fleeting expression on Lincoln’s face and he suddenly realizes what all this crap is about. Why Lincoln ruined his night, his Champagne, his sheets, his date, did all that tonight, had already done such things before and will do it all over again. It takes two to tango. He tightens his inner muscles around Lincoln and feels his throat constrict with satisfaction when he gets a delighted, painful growl in response.

“On me,” he orders, and then adds, his tone blatantly sleazy, “All over me.”

He pants at the loss when Lincoln slips out of his body. Gripping the scarf because he desperately needs to hold onto something, he lowers his legs, and his knees trap Lincoln’s hips to urge him on. There is a pause; neither of them moves for a few seconds while Lincoln takes in the sight and blinks. Then looking almost drunk, he closes his fist tight around his cock and slides it up and down, slowly at first, faster when Michael curses under his breath and finally breathes out, “Linc, please... _please_...”

It’s the begging that gets to Lincoln. It has to be, because his hips buck and snap forwards and, his mouth open on a silent shout, he spills on Michael, staining his stomach and groin. Michael shudders when it hits him, hot and sticky, marking, branding him. He looks down, transfixed by the milky fluid glistening on his stomach and dick, wishing he can touch it, spread it, rub it into his skin.

The shudders don’t subside. They quickly morph into uncontrollable shaking because Lincoln, still breathing hard and barely recovering from his own pleasure, dives between his knees. And it starts all over again, Linc’s hands and mouth on him, except there is no teasing or taunting this time around; the caresses are thorough and deliberate and they won’t stop. It’s all lips humming along his cock, teeth sliding ever so slightly on the velvety skin, tongue lapping greedily. The hot wetness of Lincoln’s mouth is a delicious contrast with the cooler air of the bedroom and Michael writhes in ecstasy, vainly testing the resistance of the scarf wrapped around his arms.

Lincoln groaning around him is the last straw. The shameless sound combined with the caresses and kisses triggers his orgasm. Harsh spurts of come land on his own abdomen, hit Lincoln’s chin and gush into his mouth when, making good on his promise, Linc hastily engulfs his cock once again and sucks on the head. From the way he slurps and shifts, Michael manages to comprehend that he’s probably just made the hell of a mess down there. He can’t bring himself to care; it’s not like Lincoln hadn’t it coming anyway. Dizzy, his heart thumping in his chest, he tries to lower his arm to wipe the sweat from his face, remembers he’s till tied up and lets it go. He doesn’t have the strength to protest right now.

He opens his eyes a few minutes later, realizing that he may very well have blacked out a bit. Still nestled between his legs, Lincoln watches him through dark eyelashes as he licks his lower stomach. He’s meticulously cleaning what, it dawns on Michael, are remaining strands of semen – his and Lincoln’s mingled – and Michael gasps faintly.

“For God’s sake, Linc...”

Lincoln smirks and crawls up to kiss him, slipping his tongue into his mouth. There is a heady, salty tang on his lips, and it’s only when he swallows that Michael realizes what has actually been pushed in along with the tongue. He jerks under Lincoln and looks at him with eyes dark with lust.

“Like I told you earlier,” his brother says. “Nice stuff.”

His breathy “You’re sick,” is belied by the way he licks his lips and cranes his neck to press his mouth on Lincoln’s. Once again he tries to move his hands and once again the silk wrapped around his wrists reminds him of his situation – the silk and the fact that, his post-coital bliss dissipating, his arms are hurting. “Could you please untie me now?” he asks conversationally.

“You sure?”

“I’m positive. I don’t want you to fall asleep while I’m still tied up to the damn bed. Not to mention that in a couple of hours, you’re going to want round two. I want to use my hands this time around.”

“I don’t need you using your hands.” He scratches a few drops of wax plastered to Michael’s skin and flicks them out of the bed. He wants to help and it’s the thought that counts, but Michael winces because he knows they’re going to land right on his carpet and stick to the wool fibers. “I have your mouth and your ass. I’m happy with them.”

“You’re an absolute jackass. I don’t even know why I let you tie me up in the first place.”

“You like being at my mercy.”

It stings. Really. Even though Linc is joking, his retort is like a sharp point running down Michael’s chest and cutting the skin. It’s a blunt reminder of what he felt when Lincoln was buried deep inside him, stretching him and bending him to his – to their – pleasure.

“Just do it,” he sighs. He’s exhausted now, worn out by the rollercoaster of emotions and sex. He closes his eyes and waits.

Lincoln’s big hands unknot the scarf and unwrap it with care and gentleness, wary not to tear the fabric – as if Michael is going to offer it now anyway – but it’s not a surprise. Michael of all people ought to know how dexterous Lincoln can be. When he’s done, he tosses the scarf on the pillow and settles on top of Michael, rubbing his arms to ease the numbness, stroking, scrapping his teeth across any expanse of skin he can reach. He’s so intense and possessive, Michael can’t help squirming beneath him, pretty sure that if Lincoln wasn’t so utterly spent, he would just start everything all over again. He heaves a sigh but leans into the touch. He’s going to display marks and traces tomorrow and for a few days, light bruises where Lincoln dug his fingers, rash caused by the chafing of his stubble, imprints of teeth, scratches and scrapes. Lincoln marked him; Michael can’t ignore that his brother did it on purpose and that _he_ enjoyed it so much – too much.

“You never answered me,” Linc tells him. “What’s her name and were you going to fuck her.”

It all started and ended with the date. Because Lincoln had told him he needed to get laid big time, old fashion way, Michael took him on his word, asked the young woman out and ended up totally screwed. Lincoln really deserves no bonus point for that.

All around them, the room is still glowing, lights, candles and glass sparkling. Lincoln’s eyes, skin and lips are brighter than ever and Michael’s pretty sure he looks just the same, as thoroughly fucked and satiated.

He glances at the silk scarf lying near him on the pillow, forgotten.

“I am not going to answer you.”

His arms and legs, not to mention his head, are deliciously heavy when he rolls onto his side and let his eyes shut lazily. Lincoln pulls the covers up and around them, and then there’s the hard, slightly damp length of his body pressing against Michael’s. He relishes the intimate contact, the way Lincoln trails a hand down his stomach, his nails scratching him without mercy, the moist breath on his face when his brother whispers, “I’m sure you would have slept with her.” He doesn’t answer, he just smiles as he feels himself drifting into sleep.

When he wakes up a few of hours later, mumbling in appreciation under Lincoln’s mouth and touch, the scarf is lying around between them, crumpled and matted with sweat and Gold knows what other substances. The bedroom is quiet and dim, so he figures out that at some point, his brother turned off all the lights. Only the candle on the night table is still burning. It shimmers, wavers and twists to stay alive, casting shadows on Lincoln’s face as he closes in on him.

* * *


End file.
